


Lugeo

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Oliver Trevelyan [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he ought to be thankful for every survivor within Skyhold’s walls, but there are too many dead.  Too many lost.  Too many gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lugeo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tarysande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/gifts).



> Lugeo: To mourn, be in mourning; to grieve.

_A hand that can be clasp’d no more—_

_Behold me, for I cannot sleep,_

_And like a guilty thing I creep_

_At earliest morning to the door._

In Memoriam, VII

~Alfred, Lord Tennyson

_#_

_Snow and ice and rock and debris—buildings, chunks of masonry, bodies—roll upon him like a wave on the shore, crashing into him, knocking him off his feet and on his back, squeezing, crushing, killing—pressing him into the earth until his lungs burn and his throat aches with screams he can’t voice because he can’t_ breathe _.He reaches out into the snow, clawing at it, digging, until he grasps a hand, slim with long, slender fingers.He squeezes; it squeezes back.In the dark, the faint glow of mana-light pulses from those fingertips._

_His lips form his sister’s name, despite having no breath, no voice to speak it._

_The hand squeezes his again, reassuring despite there is no warmth to be found in the grip.Evie always did have cold hands._

Cold hands, warm heart _, she’d always said._

_With frozen, aching, raw fingers, he digs at the snow; fingernails catch on rock, on cook-pots and broken crockery, shards of shattered potion bottles slice up under his fingernails, but still he digs, still that pale, slender hand, urges him on, beckoning._

_But as it beckons, as he digs, blinding white snow turns red, the color spreading like a dark blossom, like a rose unfolding its petals.Red like heart’s blood._

_Cold hands, warm heart._

_Red-stained snow presses closer, filling his mouth, his throat; the beckoning hand falls, nothing but bone and tendon showing above the wrist, and then there’s nothing but bodies, sightless eyes and silent mouths, gaping at him, accusing—_

Oliver wakes with a gasp, blinking into darkness, trying to ease his rapid breath, to slow his racing heart.The darkness, he gradually realizes as the nightmare slowly ebbs, leaving gooseflesh and nausea in its wake, is not as thick, as impenetrable as he’d thought.No, a fire burns reassuringly in the huge hearth, casting in flickering light row after row of occupied bedrolls. The fire in the hearth spits sparks as a log cracks.Someone snores.It will take time to clean the clutter of neglect and age, just like it will take time to patch the walls and mend the roof.For now, such communal arrangements keep people safe and warm, and that is more important than privacy or soft beds.

Unfortunately, he cannot focus on the living, cannot see how many living bodies fill the hall; he sees only those he failed.Minaeve is here, but Adan expired not three feet away, as Oliver reached for him.Flissa and Threnn live, and he knows he ought to be thankful for every survivor within Skyhold’s walls, but there are too many dead.Too many lost.Too many gone.  

Every absence is a condemnation, beginning with the Conclave, with Evangeline herself.

He sits up, rubbing at his eyes, certain there will be no more sleep for him.Whichever it is, the dream—or nightmare—remains vivid enough that the phantom memory of tightness lingers in his chest and Oliver has no desire whatsoever to close his eyes anytime soon.

So, pushing quietly to his feet, he carries his boots, bow, and quiver to the far end of the room and, by the hearth’s light, laces his boots and shoulders both his bow and quiver.If he can’t sleep, he might as well make himself useful, one way or another.Another set of eyes on the wall can’t possibly hurt.

Outside, dawn has already started lightening the sky.It’s an uncommonly beautiful sight: pink-tinged light pouring through the craggy gaps between mountains, light chasing away the lingering dark, a slow shift of colors above and shadows below.The air is cold and crisp, and a few deep lungfuls do an impressive job pushing away the stubborn remnants lurking in the dark corners of his mind.

“You’re up with the birds, Inquisitor.”

Oliver turns to find Cullen crossing the courtyard, heading for the very steps he’s descending.His general (Maker, he’ll never get over that; he’s not the sort of person ever meant to _have a general_ ) looks as if he’s not had a decent night’s sleep in weeks, though that’s hardly unusual for any of them these days.He shrugs a shoulder and says, “Varric started snoring.”The lie falls easily from his tongue, but the truth is not one he wants to share.“Sleeping through it wasn’t an option, so it came down to either getting up and facing the day or smothering him.”

Cullen chuckles, shaking his head and rubbing a hand across his face.“You show more restraint than I would have, I fear.”

“Yes, well, you look as if you’ve had even less sleep than I.”

“That is—”A wide, sudden yawn clutches at him, and he grimaces once it subsides.“Entirely possible.In any event, I will be rectifying the matter shortly.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Provided Varric’s stopped snoring.”

Oliver allows himself a smile.“Give him a prod and he’ll likely roll over.”

Cullen offers a tired chuckle.“In truth, I doubt it would matter if the roof caved in around me.”

The jest hits a hair too close to home. Oliver’s smile freezes momentarily.“Well,” he says, “in that case I won’t keep you up any longer with my nattering.”

The commander, however, narrows his eyes; he sees something in Oliver’s expression he himself is unaware of.“Are _you_ well, Inquisitor?”

For a moment, Oliver considers lying.He doesn’t know why he opts for the truth instead.It’s probably not the done thing, the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, or whatever else in the Void people want to call him this week, admitting something as banal as _weakness._ In the end, that may be exactly why he admits with a shrug, “Bad dreams.I thought some fresh air might help.”

The look that passes between them is one rife with understanding; there is nothing of sympathy, only comprehension, and for that Oliver is grateful.“I myself have found it helps more often than it does not.”Cullen’s eyes go to Oliver’s weapon and he nods to himself.“There are some…admittedly rudimentary practice targets up in the yard,” he says.“In the event you require something beyond fresh air.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”He turns to go, then hesitates a moment, turning back to add, haltingly, “I—we none of us, Inquisitor, are strangers to nightmares.”His eyes turned inward, as if struggling with what to say.“If it is a matter that will not be quieted by fresh air or,” he nods at the quiver, “several dozen arrows…”

 _Talk to someone._ The unspoken words hang in the air almost as clearly as if they’d been given voice.

And for a moment, he wonders just what and how much Cullen has seen in the course of his life.

 _Too much_ , he decides.

“I understand,” Oliver says, because he does.Cullen offers a final nod and vanishes into the shadowed hall. 

The practice yard, such as it is, boasts, as Cullen had said, an indeed rudimentary collection of ancient practice dummies and targets, most of which are ancient and beyond dilapidated, though some newer ones have been crafted by some enterprising soul.It’s a newer target he chooses, taking it up under one arm; a rush of fresh hay meets his nose and he holds it a little tighter, long strides taking him away from the practice yard, away from Skyhold entirely.

Just because the hour is early does not mean it will remain that way. He has no wish to be interrupted by recruits, runners, and scouts just trying to get on with their business. He has no wish to be interrupted at all.

It’s not a long walk to the grove; the spot is well hidden, but still close enough to Skyhold that sound will carry as the keep wakes.If anyone causes a fuss at his disappearance, he’ll be able to hear it.For now, though, it is only him, his weapon, a target, and dim, watery dawn light.

Oliver props the target against a thick pine, his footsteps crunching softly over the carpet of pine needles and scattered pieces of broken pine cone as he puts space between himself and the target.It’s dark enough he can make out the shape of it.

There is little wind this morning, but for the barest breath of it against his neck.He pulls his bow free and slides an arrow from the quiver, holding it loosely between his fingers.Time is not a luxury he often has in the thick of the fray and he takes a moment to adjust his stance and roll his shoulders before lifting the bow and nocking the arrow.The tension in the bowstring is perfect and when he looses the arrow, it cuts through the air, landing solidly in the target.

One will not be enough.

He’s seen the list Leliana had given Cullen, the list of names—everyone they’d lost at Haven.Too many names.Too many _people._ How many of them had joined the Inquisition, certain and secure in their optimism, in their _faith_ they would persevere against injustice, right wrongs, and set the world back on an even keel?  

And how many of them has he failed?

Every single name on that list is—is and will always be—a weight on his soul.

He slides another arrow free, nocks it, pulling the bowstring back to his ear, holding a moment before letting it fly.

This isn’t the first time he’s had this dream since Haven fell.Oliver has no illusions it will be the last.It is, however, the first time—

_He reaches out into the snow, clawing at it, digging, until he grasps a hand, slim with long, slender fingers.He squeezes; it squeezes back.In the dark, the faint glow of mana-light pulses from those fingertips._

Oliver draws another arrow.  

_Cold hands, warm heart._

He breathes, because that is what he does when a bow is in his hands, when the arrow is drawn back—too many years of archery masters rapping him on the back of the head whenever he’d held his breath, perhaps—but he _breathes_ until that is all he hears in his ears, not the whistle-thunk of the arrow hitting its target, not the rasp of another arrow pulled from the quiver, not the bowstring’s creak as he does it all over again.

In and out.Over and over and over again.His movements follow the same rhythm as every inhale, every exhale.

He hasn’t allowed himself the luxury of grief.Too many rifts, too many demons, too many men following a would-be god.There is too much to do, he tells himself.He will mourn his sister later. _Later._ Later, once the sting of his parents’ reply has subsided (“ _You were meant to be watching over her. How could you have let this happen?”)_ , once he can remember what happened at all.

Later.

How _could_ he have let this happen?

_I’m sorry.I’m sorry, Evie.I’m so sorry._

Another arrow.Another. _Another._ Every breath is too hot, his lungs too tight, but he breathes all the same, forcing air into his lungs even as his left hand clenches too tight around his bow’s grip.

The trip from Ostwick to Haven rises, unbidden, from his memory.What remains of it, anyway.The the awe and delight on his sister’s face when they reached the Conclave—

_“Maker’s breath!I’ve never seen so many people at once.”_

_“I’ll take it this wasn’t quite how it was in the Circle.”_  

_“Don’t be daft, Ollie.”_

He pushes back against the onslaught, the last memories he has of his sister before everything went blank.Evangeline, alive, breathing, smiling—

 _“Do you think we’ll actually be able to_ see _the Divine?”_

_“You’ll see her if I have to put you on my shoulders to do it.”_

_“You are_ not _putting me on your shoulders.”_

_“You say that now.Just wait until the proceedings have begun and you have a veritable giant in front of you.”_

_“I’ll zap you.”_

_“Then I will think you horribly ungrateful.”_

He misses her.Maker, but he misses her.

_Momma’s belly, big and round, and when he was very good, she let him press his ear to it and listen.Reggie thought he was a stupid baby for listening, and for talking to Momma’s belly, because whatever was inside probably couldn’t hear him and even if it could, it couldn’t understand him._

_Ollie knew better.Which was why, on sundrenched afternoons, he curled up next to Momma on her divan and told her belly stories._

_“You know, my heart,” Momma said, fingers drifting through his curls that Reggie said made him look like a girl.“When your new brother or sister comes, you won’t be youngest anymore.You won’t be the baby.”_

_He scowled.“‘M_ not _a baby.”_

_“Of course not, my heart.Forgive me.What I meant to say was that you will be this babe’s big brother, and you’ll be expected to watch over him… or her.Tell me, will that be amenable to you?”_

_He blinked up at his mother, smiling, pink-cheeked, back at him._

_“Yes,” he said, not because he knew what ‘amenable’ meant, but because it seemed like the sort of question he needed to say yes to.He could watch over someone.How hard could that be, watching?_

_“That’s my little man.”_

His fingers tighten as if they want to cramp, the muscles up his arms and across his back burn, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow.The light isn’t so watery anymore, streaks of gold and pink filter through the pines that cast crosshatch shadows.He can see better now, though when he looks at the target, he no longer sees it, but the spaces between arrows already shot, relentlessly filling those spaces, as if it is a gap he can seal, a hole he can fill.

_“Say hello to your little sister.”_

_“Hello, Evangeline,” he murmured solemnly into the bassinet before looking doubtfully up at Father and saying, in a whisper,“She’s really little.”_

_What he didn’t say, what he knew better than to say, was that his new sister was wrinkly and red-faced, and when she howled, she sounded like nothing so much as one of the stable mousers.Ollie couldn’t quite quell his pang of disappointment; he’d been promised a little brother or sister.This…_ this _was not what he’d been expecting.He’d been expecting a playmate, not a tiny, wrinkled little thing.This—_ she _—would not be nearly as interesting to watch over as he’d hoped.Evangeline didn’t_ do _anything._

_“True enough, but she’ll grow.”_

_He looked down into his sister’s sleeping face with its startled-looking shock of blue-black hair.“When?”_

_Father laughed, clapping one huge hand on Ollie’s shoulder.“More slowly than you’d like, and quicker than you could possibly imagine.”_

He sweats, steam rising from his skin, puffing past his lips as he breathes.A trickle of perspiration slides into his eye.He blinks it away, but the sting of salt remains.

_The horse snorted, lunging suddenly to one side before rearing up.He hit the ground hard enough to see stars, hard enough the breath was knocked from his lungs, hard enough to hear a crack and wonder what it was._

_Evie stared at him, eyes wide, face pale in her horror.“Ollie!”_

_Pain flew up his arm when he tried to move it.Hard enough to break his arm, then. “I’m fine,” he lied._

_“You’re not fine!”_

_“I’m fine,” he said again, more convincingly.“Stop worrying.The horse spooked.”_

_Evie cast a horrified look at the patch of ice sparkling two inches thick across the grass._

_Ice on the grass, three days before Summerday._

_She looked at her hands.“I… did that.Did I do that?I—how… I don’t—”_

_“You might’ve put the ice there, but you did_ not _make the bloody horse lose its mind about it.”_

_“Don’t swear, Ollie,” she replied distantly, automatically, still staring warily at her hands, as if they might betray her again.“It’s vulgar.”_

_He grabbed one of his sister’s hands with his own; a funny, unpleasant sort oftingle chased across his skin._ Magic _, his mind supplied.“Listen to me,” he said, squeezing Evangeline’s hand until she looked at him.“Listen to me,” he said again, more sternly this time.“We don’t have to tell anyone.We won’t.”_

_“What?I can’t—you saw what I did!We have to tell Momma and Father.”_

_“No,” he said, his tone unnervingly steady, even as his mind reeled at the implications of what he was suggesting.“We don’t.We’ll tell them I fell off the horse.It’s happened plenty before.Besides this…” he looked at sparkling ice.“This could have been a fluke.You probably couldn’t do it again if you tried.”_

_He knew it was untrue the moment he spoke the words, but he spoke them anyway.But if they told, she’d be sent away.He couldn’t let her be sent away._

He is raw inside.Hollow.Arrows fill gaps between arrows, but he is _hollow_.

His breath comes faster, hotter.

_“Ollie. What did you do?”_

_“Nothing.”_

_Sharp pale eyes that missed nothing looked down at his hand.He tried not to favor it._

_“Who?”_

_“No one,” he muttered sullenly._

_Eyes so like his own narrowed.“Who?”_

_“Kell Aldrich,” he shot back.“Because he called my sister a ‘filthy robe.’There. Happy?”_

_Evangeline sighed.“No,” she said, frowning at his hand.“I’m not happy.You can’t go around punching people just because they’ve said unkind things about me.”_

_“I think you’ll find I can do exactly that, and I do it well.”_

_Shaking her head at him, she took a breath and flicked her fingers; the soft glow of ice magic pulsed from her fingers to his bruised knuckles.“I should let your fingers swell up like sausages.Maker’s blood, you’re incorrigible.”_

_“Maybe I am.But I know if they’re cruel enough, you might decide to stop coming home altogether.So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take my chances with a pompous bastard like that. Incorrigible or not.Besides, he already had a face like a horse; if anything I improved upon it.”_

His quiver is empty.Not a single arrow remains.The bow falls from cramping fingers and he sinks to his knees.His muscles tremble and burn, but it is nothing to the hurt behind his ribs, clenched like a fist, gripping, twisting, _pulling_ until, incongruously, it tears something open inside him _._ Oliver takes another breath only to discover it is not a breath, but a hitching, ragged sob.His eyes burn, not from staring at a target, not from sweat running into his eyes, but with tears.Slowly he curls in on himself, until his forearms are braced against the cold earth and his hands are tightened to fists, as sobs wrack his shoulders.He has not let himself grieve, has not let himself _hurt_ , not like this, but his sister is dead and gone and not coming back, and he _misses_ her, and he cannot help but hurt, cannot help but grieve and count all the things she will never again do or think or say.  

And when the tears have all been wrung out of him—whether it has been hours or days, he cannot say—that hurt remains, heavy, like a leaden lump behind his ribs.His eyes burn.His throat aches.His head pounds.

Oliver does not feel better, he doubts he will ever feel _better,_ but neither does he feel worse.

Perhaps that counts for something.

 


End file.
